A Christmas Carol
by Squashed Sandcastle
Summary: Alright, I went over the Christmas Deadline. So sue me. Still read the story though- it features every character, romance, and a million moments of genuine human connection. Complete, including soundtrack. I'm not kidding about the soundtrack, either.
1. Little Slips of Paper like Snow

"What're you doing, dude?"

"I'm trying to devise a calendar." Locke looked up at a confused-looking Hurley with one of his philosophical blue-eyed stares. It took Hurley a moment to figure out how to continue the conversation.

"oh, so you can uh. . . figure out what day it is and stuff—I get it."

"I've already done that bit. I'm mapping out the days after this one." Locke didn't look up.

"Cool. So, uh. . . what's the date?" he asked.

"December 23rd."

Hurley stood there gaping a minute.

"Holy shit. . . it's two days til Christmas!" He said, jumping up. Never one to get excited, Locke simply nodded.

"We gotta do something. . ." Hurley mumbled, running off towards his tent. Locke stood there a moment smiling, then shook his head and hunched over once more.

* * *

Kate looked up to hear Hurley shouting in the distance. After all that had happened, she felt a cold pang of fear in her stomach. An automatic reaction. However, Hurley was not being dragged off into the jungle by a polar bear or any other similar tragedy; instead, he had managed to climb on top of the plane wreckage, and was now flapping his arms wildly in the air, calling everyone to gather around. Kate shook her head, wondering how it was possible that he wasn't already fallen face first from the loss of balance. Shaking her head, she abandoned the fishing pole she was building and began walking towards the commotion.

Hurley's fragmented cries formed words as she came closer.

". . . So anyways, upon hearing recent developments, I have learned that today is December 23rd, which means tomorrow is Christmas Eve, which means tomorrow is Christmas." He had to stop to take a breath.

". . . What I propose is that we actually have some fun for once, and have a gift exchange." he finished finally.

"You mean like a Secret Santa?" Shannon asked without much enthusiasm. But then, Kate mused, did she ever have enthusiasm?

"Well, yeah." Hurley said after a moment. "Anybody who wants to can participate, just gimme your names and about twenty minutes to come up with a list. Then we'll draw names, and it'll be good."

Almost everyone came rushing up to him immediately, smiles on their faces. Kate realized she was smiling herself. Hurley was right, she thought; This will be good. Jack walked up to her after a moment.

"Do you think this is a good idea? I mean, we've got fifty million other things that we could be doing to help our survival." Kate just glanced at him a moment and laughed.

"Relax, Jack." she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "This is for emotional survival."

He smiled with a crinkle in his eyes, touching her hand on his shoulder. He laughed at himself a moment.

"Yeah, you're right." he smiled again. "It'll be fine."

Looking at her a moment more, he backed away to go put his name on the list. Kate began walking towards Hurley as well, slowly, to let the chaos die down. Looking to her right she suddenly noticed Sawyer, eyes closed, sunning himself in a chair.

"You gonna join in?" she asked. He wasn't sleeping, Kate knew. He wouldn't let himself be that vulnerable so close to other people.

"Freckles," he said, not bothering to open his eyes, "I'm more of a Grinch than a Santa Claus. I think I'll leave the sleigh bells and tinsel to the fat kid."

Kate waited to see what other sarcastic remark he would come up with.

"Although I wouldn't object to mistletoe or some heavily spiked egg nog. . ." He said after a moment.

She hated the way he insulted everyone. But then, she also knew he was just doing it to get a rise out of her. She wasn't stupid enough to take the bait.

"Suit yourself." she said. "I don't see why you wouldn't want to do it though; force someone to give you a present, surprise everyone just by putting in your name. . ."

"Lay off Freckles, nobody'd want to give the island pariah any form of Christmas cheer." Sawyer said, sighing a little bit in frustration at her stubbornness.

"You never know," she said, walking away. "People might surprise you."

Kate began walking towards Hurley once again, and put her name in the hat. She felt the warmth of inward satisfaction as she saw Sawyer stand up and walk towards Hurley, after everyone had dissipated. She knew he would come around.

Five minutes later, Hurley was calling everyone back in, holding out a hoard of paper scraps in a New York Mets hat.

"Now, before everyone starts groping blindly, I want one person," he emphasized the 'one' slowly, "—_One_-- person, to come up at a time and pick a name from the hat. That person is the one that you must give a gift to. No telling anyone who got who, no trading in for another name. . . Who you get is who you get." Hurley cleared his throat. "Understand?"

Everyone nodded. One by one people began filing up to grab a slip of paper.

Hurley started out the proceedings, opening the paper up between his sand-covered fingers, and immediately wished that he had nixed on the 'no trading' rule. . . . What the Hell was he supposed to get Shannon?

Boone walked up, a little hesitant, and picked his name. A few more passed through grabbing names, then Locke walked up and drew; then Walt; then his son, always a step behind him.

Charlie walked up to Hurley, praying inwardly to whatever god didn't hate him at this point that he'd draw one specific name. He stood there a moment, over the hat, looking at all the little bits of paper. They were the closest thing to snowflakes that they'd get this Christmas.

Hurley noticed his deliberation, and faked a cough.

"Hers is the one with the smudge on the corner." he mumbled under his breath. Charlie smiled and drew it, unfolding it to read the word: _Claire._

"Thanks, man."

Smoothing her skirt as she walked, Shannon advanced and hurriedly drew a name, not even pretending to hide her disappointment when she read who it was.

Claire followed Shannon with a smile. Her grin only grew when she saw Hurley's name on the paper.

With weighted confidence, Jack walked up and drew a name, followed by Sayid, and then Kate.

One name remained in the hat. As Sawyer walked up to claim it, people immediately fell silent, not attempting to hide their disdain. Boone began grumbling.

"Jesus Christ Sawyer," he finally burst. "What are you gonna give anyone? A gun to their head?" He burst out angrily.

"It'd be better than his aim last time." Walt added. A few people laughed, but Kate just stared, wondering about Sawyer's reaction. He just smiled at them that same, confident slow smile, paper in hand.

"Glad to see everyone's filled up with Christmas cheer. Wouldn't want any coal in your stocking now would you, kid?" he said, looking Boone in the eye. Boone glared back, full of hatred for the man that had toyed so lightly with his sister's life.

"They should've just left you tied to that tree to die." he said through gritted teeth.

"Maybe they should have." Sawyer said, smile still ironically fixed upon his face.

The two stood there for a moment. No one spoke up for Sawyer. No one spoke at all.

With a wink at Boone, Sawyer turned on his heel in one smooth motion, and walked away to his hole on the edge of the jungle. The crowd immediately began to dissolve as the others began to worry once again about their own gift plans, instead of the morbid entertainment of an impending fight.

Only Kate saw Sawyer crumple and drop the paper in the sand as he walked further away, unopened.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing?" Sawyer heard behind him.

It had taken Kate less than a minute to catch up to Sawyer after he had put a wide berth of distance between him and the rest of the group. From this point on the beach, the wreckage seemed nothing more than a dot on the horizon. He had hoped the people surrounding it would stay that small, but apparently Kate had other plans.

Sawyer gave it a little bit of time before answering, just to make it clear that she wouldn't be able to push him.

"I'm taking a walk on the beach." he said, turning around to look at her. "I would think that would be pretty obvious to someone as smart as you." Give her a smile.

Kate glared back.

"You know what I'm talking about, Sawyer. You can't just quit this because some twenty-year old kid hurt your feelings."

"Nobody hurt my feelings Freckles. . ." Jesus, she made everything he did sound so petty.

"Sure they did," she interrupted. "You made an attempt, and you were stomped all over by everyone."

". . .Let's get one thing straight," Sawyer said, interjecting on her little rant. "_I _was not making an attempt. I don't give a flying fuck what any one of those people back there think of me. . ." he began advancing on her, putting her on the defensive.

"I was merely trying to prove a point to you, Freckles: _People don't surprise you_. I've lived my life on being able to predict people's reactions and decisions. I know firsthand that there is absolutely nothing surprising at all in human actions." Sawyer stopped a moment. He had raised his voice a little, without meaning to. The worst that could happen would to have anyone see him agitated, especially Kate. It was easy to see that she could spot a person's weakness a mile away. When he spoke again, it was softer.

"I knew the moment I walked up there what was going to happen, and what would be said."

It was true, too. He had predicted exactly what had followed, though if he was honest with himself, there was a small part of him buried way deep down the hoped for a reaction a little more surprising. A little different from the usual.

Kate hadn't moved, hadn't backed away like Sawyer had expected her too. And when she found her voice again, he was disappointed to see that he deflated none of her aggression.

"Look, Sawyer. I don't care why you decided to join in—you have to follow through with this."

"It doesn't seem to me like the rest of the group agrees with your ideas to let me sit in on the little girl scout circle that you've got going." he said, laying down in the sand with his hands behind his head.

"I don't care what the rest of the group thinks either," she said angrily. "You're now responsible for another person's happiness. You accepted that the minute you threw your name in that Yankees hat."

". . . It was a _Mets_ hat, and whoever it was, they're gonna have to learn sooner or later that life's a bitch. I might as well act as their bitter reality personified." he snapped.

Sawyer closed his eyes, hoping Kate would take the hint and buzz off. She kept on stabbing him with all these different expectations and arguments. Wasn't that one of the things he had always relished about the life he led? Nobody to expect anything out of you? Instead of leaving, Sawyer felt her displace the sand as she sat down beside him. The frustration was beginning to build.

"I cannot believe that you're doing this. This thing Hurley's doing is the one thing that anyone has had to look forward to since washing up here, and you're going to deliberately screw it up. What if it's that young boy, Walt's kid? What are you gonna tell him when he's denied this one opportunity for a little happiness? Are you—"

_"I'm gonna tell him to get used to disappointment, okay?!"_ Sawyer blew up. Inside, it felt like he was taking a sledgehammer to a wall of mirrors that had been closing around him for years. A hot, angry, raw feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach._ "I'm gonna tell him that this is the way life is, and the only way that you get ahead isn't by waiting around for someone to help you and give you presents, it's by fighting for it!"_

Sawyer sat up straight, glaring into Kate's eyes and spitting the words at her face.

". . .I'm gonna tell him that this world is based on survival of the fittest, so if he's feeling sad for not getting a Christmas present, he might as well lay himself flat on the sand and wait for someone to walk all over him, cause that's what's gonna happen to him for the rest of his life unless he learns to just deal with it, and _fight back!"_

Both sat silent for a moment, staring. Sawyer looked at Kate and realized what he must look like—wild eyed and crazed, overtaken by his own emotions. It was like being on a rollercoaster, with each word increasing speed downward until you crashed at the bottom.

Sawyer took a breath to calm himself. Maybe that little outburst would get her to leave. Somehow he doubted it.

"Look, Freckles, I'm not gonna be your little project." he said, looking at her again. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her.

"What are you gonna do, Freckles? You gonna fix me?" he asked sarcastically.

"Look, Sawyer, I'm not trying to fix you, but I know that you can't be as asinine as you pretend. I have a feeling you're just in the habit of making sure you piss off as many people as possible immediately after you meet them." Sawyer looked at her a moment in disbelief before shaking it off. He had to find some way to make her leave.

"And what makes you so perfect that you think you can dissect everyone else while you make sure that nobody knows a damn thing about you?" he said, cocking his head to the side, making his face as casual as possible.

"We've all got baggage Freckles, no pun intended," he said. "You've got the biggest secret of all."

If he had meant to shock her, he had done so. He had had a hunch that she was the one flying with the marshal the moment that the dying man had asked to speak alone with her. Now, looking at the wide-eyed expression on her face, he knew for sure.

In a split second she returned to the half-angry, half-brooding expression she had worn before, but Sawyer had noticed her reaction.

"What do you mean?" she asked him.

"Come on Freckles. . . quit pretending." He leaned in close to her ear. "You had to have done something wrong to be flying back home with a U.S. Marshall."

She didn't deny it, but instead stoically looked ahead at the waves, her eyebrows knitted in stubborn thought. He had a feeling that they were masking more serious emotions underneath.

_"Come on, Kate,"_ he said, using her name for the first time. "I wanna know what you, the perfect castaway, did to get someone tailing you all the way to Australia." He whispered in her ear; "How many others know? Or didja just tell them all that you had a desk job back home?"

That was it. Just one more push and she'd walk away before breaking down in front of him. She was too proud and independent to do anything else. He knew the feeling.

Which was why he surprised himself when instead of taunting her to go away, that pang of empathy coaxed him to just remain silent next to her, staring off at that same fixed point on the horizon that she was concentrating on now so intently.

* * *

Kate was afraid to speak for fear that her voice would crack, and was afraid to look in any direction besides the ocean for fear the this hot sensation now pressing against her eyes would suddenly betray her and pour out across her cheeks. She had been so hoping for a second chance, so hoping to forget all that had happened. Now she had to face it; everyone would know eventually.

And then she'd be back to loner Kate. Not that she had ever really stopped doing that, considering how she would sit right next to everyone around a signal fire each night, talking and laughing with them while they were being honest, and secrets were burning at the inside of her throat. She felt more alone then than any of the many times when she'd hiked across highways without talking for days. At least with just her she could be honest with herself.

But still, with the people there, it was nice to have the opportunities in her hands for companionship instead of forced out of her control. She felt more trust here than in any other place she had ever been. And soon, that would be gone.

Kate concentrated on breathing. So long as she breathed in and out she would not cry, she told herself. Just breathe and look at the water until everything seems better.

"How long have you been on the run?" Sawyer asked suddenly. This time it wasn't attacking—he almost sounded empathetic, though it was barely detectable. Kate forced her voice to be even before she spoke.

"Started when I was 13," she said slowly. No hitches in her voice.

"Jesus." Sawyer said softly.

"How about you?" she asked.

"Started when I was 8." He wasn't running from the law, but he'd been running from himself for a long time nonetheless.

Kate let out a sigh.

"So I guess neither one of us got to be teenagers, huh?" Sawyer asked. "No graduation."

"No sweet 16." she added.

"No ego-battering high school."

"No prom dress." With this, a barely-scrutible tone of sadness crept into her voice. Most girls dream about prom from age six on, and it just keeps building from there, he thought. He could understand her letdown.

"No dad intimidating your boyfriends." Sawyer added lightly.

"Yeah." she said, with an air of melancholy.

"That's okay," Sawyer said, laying a hand on her shoulder with a smile. "I hear the SATs are absolute shit anyways."

Kate laughed, and a small part of Sawyer flared to know that he had caused that laugh. He ignored it as best as he could.

Long after Kate walked back to the plane, Sawyer searched through the sand for the piece of paper that he dropped. He'd played many roles, he could play nice guy for a day.

A blue-lined bleached corner suddenly revealed itself under the sand with a gust of western wind.

Sawyer picked up the name and read it:

_KATE_

Classic, he thought.

He smiled, putting the scrap in his pocket.


	2. Happy Distractions

**Thank to those who reviewed and made clear my mistake on Walt and Michael's names. . . I realized the mistake as well about an hour after posting it, but at that point I was too lazy to go back and change things. So for those of you that didn't catch it, Walt is _Michael's _son, not the other way around. Oops.**

Hurley sat on a log, deliberating over what to do. What was he supposed to give to Shannon, the mother of all that is sarcastic and superficial? Any warm fuzzies that he'd kept stored up for a rainy day would be long gone by the time she got through with him. He cursed the fates for giving him the Devil in Heels as a gift recipient.

"Think, man. . . think. . ." the only thing Hurley knew about girls had come from his grandmother. Many an afternoon of his young life had been comprised of sitting on the couch watching _Breakfast at Tiffany's _with Grandma Jane. This, he reasoned, was why he had never been popular in high school. What kind of a guy can quote Audrey Hepburn movies and can sew like a maniac (kudos again to Grandma Jane), but can't throw a football?

_Maybe. . ._ Hurley thought. It would mean braving a few unpleasant people, but this was the only thing that he could think of so far that might appease. He'd brave it.

For the sake of his own well-being, he'd brave it.

A few minutes later, Hurley found himself in a familiar place: outside Sawyer's little hovel on the edge of the jungle, trying to figure out how to talk to him and actually get something out of it. This time Sawyer wasn't lounging in a chair with crazy white and pink sunglasses, though. This time it took Hurley a moment to see him in the midst of all those leaves, sitting on the ground, intently concentrating on the piece of paper in front of him, pencil in hand. He looked halfway mad, and for a moment, Hurley looked about ready to turn back.

He stopped himself. This was the only thing he could think of, and he didn't relish trying to figure out another idea. A twig snapped underneath Hurley's foot, and Sawyer looked up sharply.

"I come in peace. . ." Hurley said quickly.

"Relax, frizzhead. You don't scare me."

"Umm. . .I meant. . ." What did he mean, 'you don't scare me'? Of course he didn't—Hurley thought that that was a given. Whatever.

"You meant. . . . what?" Sawyer was looking at him with a mix of sarcasm and annoyance.

"Do you have lots of clothes in the stockpile bomb shelter you got back there?" Possibly I should've considered my word choice before opening my mouth, he thought, as he saw the way Sawyer was beginning to glare at him.

"Yeah." Sawyer said, after a moment. "You're not expecting me to give you any, are you?"

"No," Hurley said, sighing with relief. Here was his cue. "I'm expecting you to trade me for some clothes.

"What've you got?" Sawyer's curiosity was perked, he could tell.

"Something you can't pass up."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Hurley revealed the unopened pack of Marlboros in his hand. Sawyer's eyes widened.

"Where'd you get those?"

"You're not the only one hoarding stuff."

Sawyer smiled at the joke.

"Take whatever clothes you want, just give me the cigarettes."

"Deal."

That went rather well, Hurley thought as he dragged off a suitcase of clothes and an airline complimentary sewing kit. Surprisingly well.

Hurley began whistling "Moon River" under his breath as he lugged the suitcase off to a quiet spot to sew.

Across the beach, Shannon and Boone were in a somewhat lesser state of tranquility.

". . . Quit being such a brat, Shannon!" Boone was shouting at her.

"What are you talking about? It's not like I'm doing anything wrong! It isn'tmy fault that I don't know anything about kids—"

"Jesus, Shannon! Figure it out for yourself! I'm not going to make a gift for you to give to that kid! Could you stop being self-centered for five seconds? Maybe then you could actually think of something to give him instead of running crying to me like you always do!"

". . . I cannot believe you're making such a big deal about this. . ."

"Well, I am making a big deal, Shannon. Believe it or not, I am. Maybe because this is just a goddamned repeat of my life for the past 15 years! I should have told you back when we were five, when you were having me steal popsicles out of the freezer for you, just to do something for yourself for once in your fucking life. . . I guess now is better late than never," he looked at her, disgusted. "Deal with this one yourself."

Boone stomped off without another word, leaving Shannon sitting in the sand with a surprising pang of hurt and embarrassment at his disappointment in her. She really would have to figure this one out on her own.

* * *

"What're you doing?" Charlie loomed over Claire, who was intently focused on drawing something on a yellow legal pad. She immediately flipped the pad closed as Charlie approached.

"Shhh! You can't look—" she said with a grin. "It's my Secret Santa present."

"Who've you got?" he said, trying to peak his nose over her shoulder to see what she was drawing. She shoved him away, laughing.

"Not supposed to tell, remember?"

"Yeah. . . but I'm an exception." Claire rolled her eyes.

"No, really!" Charlie continued. "Besides—you looked a little perplexed. Maybe I could help you with ideas."

"If you're so interested in mine, who've you got?"

"Not telling."

"Hypocrite."

"Precisely."

Claire laughed again.

"Get going—" she said, giving him another playful shove. "I gotta finish working on this."

"Fine. I can see where I'm not wanted." Charlie grunted to stand.

"Later Claire."

He stopped a moment.

"How's the baby?" he asked, a little more serious.

Claire still smiled, but Charlie could see the worry in her eyes. "Baby's fine." she paused a second. "He'll be coming pretty soon."

Claire laid a protective hand on her stomach, becoming lost in thought. Charlie crouched down beside her and touched her forehead with his.

"No whatifs now," he said, comfortingly. "You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

Claire smiled slightly.

"Thanks, Charlie."

"No trouble." he said, smiling and walking away. He had been looking for inspiration.

He'd found it.

* * *

Michael looked out towards the sand to see the most frightening thing in his life coming towards him: his son.

"Whatcha doin'?" Walt asked when he'd caught up to his dad. Michael still didn't know how he was going to make this work. They'd been pretty much in isolation together for the past few months on this island, and he had yet to find a way to relate to Walt.

"I'm carving the branch into little figures." Michael explained.

"What's it for?" Walt sat down next to him. Maybe, Michael thought, just maybe I could make this work. Maybe this whole Christmas thing can be a way for us to start over.

"It's for that Christmas thing." Michael and Walt sat a moment in awkward silence. Michael's hopes began to sink. This past month, his emotions had gone up and down like a boat in a storm—with every airplane he thought he heard, with every patronizing comment that was made towards him, with every look from Mr. Locke, with every laugh or sigh from his son.

My son, he thought. He was still in a halfway frightened, halfway elated sense of shock, from the moment he picked up Walt to take him to the airport. Sure, he'd known he'd had a son, but before he'd lived with his mother an ocean away. . . the information had been like a clip of news that you pay attention to because you're supposed to and it's important, but you don't really hear because it never affects you.

It did now.

"You figured out a present for your person yet?" Michael asked, groping for conversation.

Walt broke out into a huge smile.

"Yeah," he said. "I've got it all figured out."

"Who is it?"

"Not telling."

"I'm your dad. You're allowed to tell me."

"Right." Walt said, as if to say, _You're only my dad when it's convenient._

"Still not telling." he said, his face stern.

Michael sat a moment looking at Walt, searching for any way to get some sort of approval. He sighed, and touched his son's arm.

"I'm sorry man. I didn't mean it like that." Walt's look softened.

"S'alright dad." he said, smiling a little.

"You need any help?"

"Just show up at the beach tomorrow with everyone else, after everyone gets presents."

Michael grinned curiously. Walt was smiling. The waves of his hopes were riding high again.

"Okay. Whatever you say Walt."

* * *

"Looks like you had the same idea I have."

Kate looked up from the orange government-issue bag she was rummaging through, to see Jack standing over her with another piece of luggage in his hands, the makings of a smile playing on his face. She stood up and brushed the sand off of her pants.

"I have some great ideas if I can just find my bags in all this." she said. Jack stared a moment at the bag in her hand.

"You shouldn't have too much trouble if they all looked like that." He said, gesturing towards the ostentatious orange fabric. "We could've signaled planes with those things."

"What can I say, the American government doesn't hire Valentino to design my suitcases." Kate winced inwardly the moment she opened her mouth. She shouldn't have brought that up. Jack looked stoic a moment, but was compassionate enough to not press for details about the bags or the marshal that gave them to her. Thank God.

"I thought that you'd already gotten your bags when everyone else was rummaging through here." he said, changing the subject.

"I'd gotten my backpack out of here, but I hadn't found my other bag. My backpack had most of the stuff that I'd needed, so I hadn't had to worry up until this point." Never carry much baggage when you always need to make hasty exits, Kate thought.

"So what's in this bag that made you root through all this stuff for?" Jack asked.

Kate looked at him that was filled annoyance and bemusement.

"Do you honestly think that I'm going to tell you what I was looking for?" she asked him sarcastically. "That's the whole point of these secret present things. . .they're secret."

She smiled, and patted him on the cheek patronizingly.

"Hey—I was just trying to help. You know me, always around to solve a problem," he said, pushing. Kate looked at him a moment, waiting for him to finish.

". . .that, and I'm having a hard time figuring out ideas for a gift." he added. Kate raised her eyebrows at him.

"You need to learn how to be content with things, Jack," she said somewhat evasively. "You're always agitated, trying to fix everything and be a part of everything. Some of those demons that you've got lurking over your shoulder might go away if you'd just learn how to be content with yourself."

Jack was staring at her now like she was a creature from the Mars. Where had that come from?

"Have fun looking through the mess." she said, hefting her orange bag over her shoulder and leaving the way she came.

Jack watched her recede into the horizon, and long after she left was still standing quizzically in front of the mountain of luggage tags and discarded possessions, running his hands over her short hair and sighing.


	3. Leno and Soccer Balls

"So Charlie, how does it feel to know that your band has made a complete turn-around comeback? I mean, for awhile it seemed like you guys would just be a one-hit wonder. . ." _The chairs that they have on Jay Leno are really comfortable,_ Charlie thought, burrowing himself further into the plush softness. _Not bad refreshments either._

"Well, after the whole mishap with the plane and everything, I honestly thought that we'd never get back together, but it's turned out to be the best thing for the band." He responded.

"We get all of our material from that event now." Charlie's brother added with a nod. "Well, I should say _Charlie_ gets all his material from that. . . I don't write the songs or anything. My baby brother here is the genius behind the operation." He smiled and patted Charlie on the shoulder as he said it.

"Yeah, I've heard about that," Jay Leno interjected, "I guess I never knew if it was true or not. It says here in Rolling Stone. . . Congrats for making the cover by the way. . ."

Cheers from the crowd, and Leno had to wait quite a while before speaking again.

"It says in Rolling Stone that you're credited with bringing back the 'Age of the Bass Player'. . ." Jay said, laughing. Charlie blushed a little.

". . . Looks like this might be shaping up to be a high point in your life, definitely." he continued, with sarcastic understatement. Charlie's big brother stood up at that moment, gesturing wildly at Charlie.

"—You haven't heard the half of it! He hasn't told anyone, and it's looking like he's probably gonna kill me now for saying it—" Charlie looked at his brother in amazement. He knew what was coming.

"Our little Charlie got himself engaged this evening right before coming here!" his brother finished with a grin. Charlie knew at that moment that he was blushing down to his collar.

The crowd was a mixture of overwhelming applause and cries of disappointment from the multitudes of adoring fans. Five minutes later the fans still weren't completely quiet.

". . .Well, who is she?" Leno said the minute he could get a word in edgewise. A mischievous look suddenly spread over his countenance.

"—better yet, is she in the audience?" he said, scanning the crowd.

"She's right over there." Charlie's brother pointed to her at the same time that Charlie was saying "No." and shaking his head.

"Bring her down!" Leno cried, clearly thrilled with comic material being presented to him. Humiliating as it was, Charlie couldn't help but smile when he saw Claire walking down towards the stage, laughing. This was the happiest he'd been in a long time. Everything was going right. Everything was perf— _"Wake up!"_

The stage scene around Charlie froze like a movie on pause. Even the pieces of confetti that the audience had been throwing with fervor hung in the air as if suspended by invisible strings. He looked around confused.

"Hey Charlie, wake up!" he heard the voice coming through hazy. Suddenly, everything was black again.

"Jeez, you're a heavy sleeper." Someone was shoving his shoulder. Tentatively, Charlie opened one eye and was blinded by the morning light.

Charlie had been having nightmares every night since landing on this miserable little strip of sand. _Of course it would work that way,_ he thought, _that the moment I actually have a good dream someone has to wake me up from it._

Walt shook him again.

"Charlie, man, you awake?" he said.

Charlie grunted in reply, and grudgingly sat up, rubbing his face.

"What's up?" he asked sleepily. "What time is it?"

"7:30." Charlie shivered at the mere mention of a time that early.

". . .and why are we awake at 7:30. . .?" he asked with measured patience.

"It's Christmas morning, Man!" Walt said with a grin. Charlie groaned again. He had remembered waking up at five to go downstairs and open presents when he was a kid. . . He just didn't figure that the same ritual would apply when everyone was stranded on a deserted island. And he hadn't expected to be the chosen one to be woken up by Walt, either. _Isn't Michael supposed to have that honor?_ he thought.

"Why are you waking me up?" He asked, trying his hardest not to sound too put out. He didn't want to give the kid the idea that he was annoying him. He was just excited about Christmas, after all.

Walt looked at him for a moment as if he were a salamander with an especially low IQ.

". . .I gotta give you your present." he said, seeming like it was the most obvious thing in the world."

"Oh. . ." Charlie said, registering everything. "You know Walt, I think we were supposed to wait until this evening to give everyone their presents." _C'mon. . .let me just get back to sleep. . ._

"You're gonna need time for yours," Walt said with a grin. Charlie wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

". . .What do you mean?" he asked timidly.

"I organized for you to play a concert tonight after everyone's done the gift thing." Walt said, clearly proud of himself. ". . .I figured you probably missed getting up in front of people and being idolized as a rock god and all."

Charlie automatically loved Walt now, simply for referring to him as a "rock god".

Then the other part of what Walt had said hit him.

_Wow._

The first thoughts after that were ones of elation—he'd get to play again! . . .What's more, people might actually listen. He hadn't had time to think about it in the whole desperate times of emergency and everything, but he'd really missed being on a stage—it was like without it he was hollow, and the minute he held a guitar in his hands and heard people cheer for him, that hollow part of him began filling up, and he actually felt whole again. Solid.

Maybe he'd get some of that back.

Charlie smiled and found himself hugging the small boy.

"Thanks, Man. You have no idea what this means to me."

"No problem man." Walt said, grinning from ear to ear as he walked back to where his dad slept.

Charlie yawned and lay flat on the ground again, hoping that the same dream would come back. Two seconds later his eyes shot open.

He wasn't going to be able to sleep. He had a concert to plan in the next eight to ten hours. A wave of panic followed like the second stage of grief, and with one rush of adrenaline he was up on his feet, heading towards his guitar.

* * *

Later on in the morning, everyone was in a state of last minute panic, trying to get things done. Those who weren't frantically trying to finish making whatever gifts they'd come up with were trying to find a way to make a party complete with food out of nothing but what was left in the wreckage of the plane. They'd enlisted Locke to go out and hunt, Boone along with him. The only one not frantic was Walt, who was lounging on the sand with Vincent, filled with self satisfaction.

He was still in this state of warm pride when Shannon finally found him twenty minutes later.

"Hey Walt." she said, sitting down next to him. Walt looked at her, completely perplexed. Since when did Shannon talk to him on friendly terms?

"Hey." he said, after a moment, not sure what else to say.

Awkwardness followed. After another long pause, Shannon cleared her throat.

"Well, uh, . . . .I thought you might want your Christmas gift now." Shannon said finally, trying to keep it cool. Walt looked at her dubiously.

"_You're_ my Secret Santa?" he asked, just staring at her. Shannon looked even more nervous. More silence. More smiling from Shannon.

Walt didn't quite understand the powers that be with this one. Why, out of all the people on this island, would _Shannon_ get his name? They were about as similar as Britney Spears and William Faulkner.

". . .Well, yeah. . ." she said finally, trying to keep the smile plastered on her face. This was weird. This was too weird.

Another moment passed where no one said a word, just stared, like there was some invisible barrier of pretenses blocking them both from having a real conversation.

Another very long round of silence, with some awkward coughs and grins.

Walt still sat and stared at her. _I'm waiting. . ._

"Oh screw it," she spat out finally, taking the soccer ball she'd found out of her bag and throwing it at him as she got up to walk away. "Merry Christmas."

Walt held the ball in his hands as she started to recede away from the sand.

"Wait!" he shouted. Shannon stopped, her back still to him.

"You wanna play me?" he asked. Shannon turned around and smiled, a genuine one this time. Walt didn't think he'd ever seen that before.

After a moment of deliberation, she began walking back towards him.

"Sure." she said. "But I'll warn you—I was on Varsity back in high school."

"Varsity's nothing," Walt said back. "I was on a rugby team back home. . .that's some tough shit."

Shannon laughed out loud.

"You just swore!" she said with surprise.

"In a place like this, _everyone's _got good reason to swear. Even me." Walt said, as he began to dribble the ball.

Shannon tipped her head and looked at him a moment.

"I would have to agree." she said, and snatched the ball away from him, flying out in the other direction.


	4. Get By With A Little More Confidence

Shannon was frantic trying to get the last drips out of her bottle of Bath and Body Works raspberry-and-vanilla scented lotion. She growled in frustration, shaking the bottle ferociously.

Damn. She should have thought to ration. But then, as Boone would have put it, she never took the time to think.

_Fuck Boone_, she thought to herself. After that soccer game she had a right to sit a moment and pamper herself. As she spread what little lotion was left in the bottle, her fingers lingered over the new bruise forming on her shin. She hadn't had a bruise in forever.

_It had been fun though,_ a tiny genuine voice in the back of her mind whispered. She smiled a little, and tried to shake more out of the inevitably dry bottle.

"Augh!" Shannon cried out, throwing the bottle violently out across the sand.

"Um. . . okay, nevermind. . ."said a voice timidly.

Shannon jumped, surprised to find someone behind her. Looking back she could see Hurley walking away.

"Wait!" she saw him visibly flinch as she called out. "What did you want?"

Hurley turned around slowly, with a look on his face like he was being prepared to be stir-fried by cannibals.

"You're not going to throw anything at me, are you?" his shoulders were still hunched in defense mode.

"Even if I wanted to, I don't have any ammunition left." she said, exasperated.

"Right." he said. He stood there a moment, and then turned the other way for the quick escape.

"Would you quit it!" she shouted. "Get back here!"

Hurley began inching towards her once more, still with an aghast frightened look plastered on his face.

". . .So what's your problem?" she continued, examining her nails for flaws. Nothing wrong, if you didn't count the heinous sight of seeing the nail polish slowly chipping off of each finger, without any nail polish remover to clear it up. She had hoped that the color would stay at least until the rescue team arrived—you never know when one of the Coast Guard members might turn out to be rich. She and Boone weren't as wealthy as they'd pretended to be. No. . . her mother had snuffed and injected all that money away.

Hurley was saying something. . . oops. She'd made all that fuss about him not running off in fright and now she wasn't able to recall a single word he'd spoken. Oh well. Pick up the conversation at the end.

". . . so, to make a long story short, I picked your name, so I've got a Christmas gift for you."

"Is that it?" she asked skeptically.

"Well, yeah. I guess."

Shannon paused. _Oh. . . ._ she thought after a moment. _Him coming to bother me actually makes sense now._

"Well, get on with it." she said, readjusting her sunglasses and sitting up to face him.

"Oh. Um, Okay. . ." Hurley's eyes widened as he jostled around in his backpack. "This present requires a little bit of explanation," he continued.

"Whatever." Shannon was trying her hardest to be patient, which said a lot, she thought, considering her personality. he continued fumbling through his knapsack.

"Well, okay. You're a girl."

"Um. . . yeah. That's pretty easy to establish."

"Right!" he said, taking in a nervous breath. "So you've probably seen a romantic movie in your time. . ."

". . .yes. . ."

"So, my point is—"

_Oh thank God, _she thought. _He has a point._

"My point is, um, have you ever seen any Audrey Hepburn movies?"

"Um. . . I told my friends that I did once." she said, trying to keep the conversation in something of a 'yes' balance.

"You know—" she rationalized, "didn't want to be left out of the loop."

Hurley just blinked at her for a moment.

"Well this makes things more complicated." he mumbled to himself, still searching.

"Have you at least seen bits of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_?" he sighed.

"Is that the one where she's got the tiara and gloves and the black dress?" she asked, squinting at him in the sun. ". . .I liked that dress. I remember it from the poster."

"Good," Hurley said, and finally extracted what he'd been looking for. "—Because that's what you're getting."

Shannon just stood there gawking, speechless. In his hands Hurley held a little black dress, painstakingly pieced together from a million other pieces of clothing. Sure, it wasn't satin, but _damn._ That took talent to sew that.

"Did you do this. . .?" she asked in disbelief. Hurley had a look of imminent doom and fear etched on his face.

"Yeah. . .um, do you like it?" his look softened a little.

"Do I like it? _Holy shit!_" she answered, feeling over the fabric.

"So, yeah. I didn't quite get that response—does that mean you like it?" Shannon rolled her eyes at him.

"Yes. _yes._ I like it, okay? _I love it!"_

In a moment of pure giddiness, Shannon squealed and gave Hurley a big hug around the neck. After a moment, Hurley, still in a state of shock, hugged her back a little uneasily.

Pulling back, Shannon took the dress in her hands.

"Jesus, Hurley. Where'd you learn to sew like this?"

Hurley smiled with pride.

"My Grandma Jane taught me."

"Hurley—" Shannon stumbled a moment, trying to find the words. "This is awesome. I love it. I'm totally gonna wear it tonight."

She gave him another hug.

She couldn't believe that anyone would go to this much trouble over her. Brat Shannon, the priss reject of the island. The only time anyone had been this generous to her in her life had been when guys had wanted a favor from her in return. That and Boone. Thank God for Boone.

This was complete generosity.

"This is one of the best gifts I've ever gotten." she said to his ear, and kissed him on the cheek.

And she'd meant every word of it.

­­

* * *

Hurley walked back towards the caves with a sudden warmth of self confidence and pride. Who'd have thought that Shannon would have actually liked her present, let alone would've kissed him for it? He'd stayed up all night making that dress. For once, it seemed, his work was paying off.

And she'd kissed him.

Sure, it was just on the cheek, but Hurley was still grinning and blushing when he ran smack into Claire, who was making a mad dash in the opposite direction. He just managed to catch her before she fell flat on her back.

"Whoa, dude," he said to her, making sure she had two feet firmly planted on the ground before letting go of her arm. "You gotta be more careful with the baby and all."

Claire broke out into a huge grin.

"I was just looking for you!" she said excitedly, still a little out of breath.

"Why?" _A backgammon emergency perhaps? One of the golf clubs is bent? _Hurley couldn't think of anything else that everyone would need him for.

Claire had a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

"I thought you might want your present." she said. It was then that Hurley noticed that she was hiding something behind her back. He felt himself suddenly reverting to a five-year-old kid, impatient for his parents to wake up so they could open stockings.

"You're my Secret Santa?" he said, his eyes widening with curiosity. "Ooh. . . what'd you get me?"

He poked his head to try and see around Claire's back, but she dodged, nearly knocking him out with her protruding stomach in the process. Hurley just managed to duck in time.

"Hey!" he cried, brushing out the hair that was now mussed in his face.

"Hey yourself." she said, looking at him sternly but still unable to suppress her smile. "You've got to learn some patience. I think maybe I'll wait now to give you this until later this afternoon."

"Oh, no—don't do that!' he dragged on her sleeve as she started to walk away. "Oh, c'mon. . ."

Claire sighed in resignation.

"I don't see what you're making a fuss about, it's not that good anyways."

"Please Claire, can I just see it? You're getting me all worked up and then threatening to leave—it's just against the Christmas spirit, to put it bluntly." Claire laughed out loud.

"Oh, don't give _me_ any of that crap. . ." she looked at him again scoldingly, but was only able to hold it for two seconds before she melted.

"Oh, fine!" she shouted, laughing in exasperation. "Here."

She held out a small book, crudely made out of yellow legal pad paper, folded in half to make pages and sewn together with scraps of string. The title of it read _The Hurlequin._

"—It's a comic book," she explained. "I made you a superhero."

Hurley thumbed through it with amazement. _Wow_, he thought_, these drawings aren't half bad._

"My friend and I back home used to make these things all the time for our friends." she continued. "I know it's not really that good, but I figured—"

"No, it's cool!" he interrupted in hushed amazement. "Trust me—this is really cool."

Hurley couldn't believe how much his timid ego had grown in strength over the past few hours—first Shannon, and then this. He'd have warm fuzzies to last him a long time now on this hellhole of an island.

"Thanks, Claire," he said, smiling a little as he flipped through it. "This means a lot."

Claire smiled back at him.

"The way I see it, everyone saves the world in some way or another," she laid a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, a bit more serious. "I can't even count the number of times that you've rescued everyone's peace of mind."

The warmth Hurley had begun to feel in his chest grew even more bright.

"I've gotta head back to camp," Claire said finally. "But I'll see you later on, right?"

"Yep, I'll be there." Hurley said with a classic nod and comical grin.

"Right. See you then." Claire started back the way she had come, walking the slow weighted stride of someone carrying the burden of another's life.

"Claire?" Hurley called out, as an afterthought. Claire turned a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Would you be willing to make more issues of this, if I asked real nice?" he wheedled.

"Sure thing." she smiled again knowingly, and continued walking.

Hurley sat down on the path and opened the book a few pages in.

Yep, there he was. . . saving the world.


	5. Song For You

**"Song for You" is copyright Alexi Murdoch.

* * *

**

Claire was lying on her back, her fingers tentatively drawing circles around the globe of her stomach, her eyebrows knitted with worry. She couldn't sleep at night anymore. It was too uncomfortable with her stomach, and her thoughts and trepidations were making it even more uncomfortable.

She had always been a little flighty—this was something that she couldn't get out of. As uncomfortable as it was to have this life moving inside her, constantly consuming her, she was even more worried about it coming out.

Claire sighed. She wasn't ready for this shit. She hadn't been ready for it back home, and she certainly wasn't ready for it here.

Looking to the side, Claire could see Charlie coming only a few footsteps away, guitar in hand. She sighed, not sure if she wanted to talk to him now, not with all this going on in her head. Charlie just complicated the other fifty million decisions that she was going to have to make soon.

"Hey Claire." he said, sitting down next to her. Charlie checked a moment to see that no one else was around, and began tuning his guitar, with the tenderness of someone holding a child. Claire could understand his care in the process. Those strings were going to have to last him awhile.

"Hey Charlie." she said without much enthusiasm. "What's up?"

She simply didn't have the energy right now. After giving Hurley his present, she had felt a wave of excitement, but that had been battered down by her sudden fatigue in the short walk that it took to get back to the caves.

"Well, Claire, my friend," he said in a mischievous tone. "I need to give you your Christmas present."

Claire smiled.

"That's great Charlie, but can you give it to me a little later? I'm trying to work some stuff out right now."

Charlie looked at her very sincerely. "I know you are. That's why I came over here now. I wanna help." Wonderful, lovable Charlie, always there for her.

"Trust me—this'll make you feel better," he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

"What did you do?" Claire said, laughing softly, taking the bait. Charlie smiled sheepishly.

"I wrote you a song—don't take all of it literally or anything—" _I do, but you don't need that sort of confusion right now_, he thought. ". . .but by the time I finished it, I realized that, on the whole, it really fit you."

Even in the emotional slump she found herself in, Claire felt a small spring begin to gush up within her at hearing him say that. _Wow_, she thought. _Someone wrote a song for me._ Just knowing that she held enough meaning in someone's life that they would do that for her was enough to rebuild few bricks of her life back up to some sense of strength. The spring inside her began to shoot up even more, welling up into her throat and making it difficult for her to speak.

Charlie was looking at her quizzically.

"S'alright if I play it now?" he asked, and Claire realized she was still gripping onto his hand. Still unable to speak, she just nodded, letting go of his fingers.

Charlie cleared his throat and looked around again for anyone popping in to ruin the moment. There wasn't really any perfect way to begin this without it being a little awkward. . . might as well just get on with it.

Slowly, Charlie's calloused fingers began to caress the strings, and all too soon he had stopped looking nervously at Claire, and became a part of his own rhythm.

_So today, I wrote a song for you, _

_Because a day can get so long,_

_and I know, it's hard to make it through _

_when you say, there's something wrong. . ._

Claire closed her eyes to hear it better, smiling a little to herself.

_So I'm trying to put it right, cause I want _

_to love you with my heart—_

Claire flashed her eyes open and looked at him a moment, but Charlie was looking down towards the smooth wood of the guitar as his fingers flew like rain over the frets in soft melody. Relax, she told herself. He said not to take it literally.

But a small part of her wanted to.

_All this trying, has made me tight _

_and I don't know even where to start. . ._

Charlie looked up at her face full of serenity with her eyes closed smiling.

_Maybe that's a start. . ._

He smiled to himself to see her smiling, and to know that he'd put it there.

_Cause you know, it's a simple game_

_that you play, filling up your head with rain,_

_and you know, you were hiding from your pain_

_in the way, in the way you say your name._

Claire had never heard anything from Driveshaft, but she was pretty sure that this was drastically different. The song was blue, soft and slow, left her feeling carved out hollow inside, and anxious to either cave in or fill the void.

Charlie continued, smooth hushed and soft.

_And I see you, hiding your face in your hands_

_flying, so you won't land—_

_you think no one understands;_

_no one understands._

He had been right, Claire thought. The song fit her with frightening accuracy.

_So you hunch your shoulders_

_and you shake your head and your throat_

_is aching but you swear, no one hurts you,_

_nothing could be said,_

_anyway, you're not here enough to care._

_And you're so tired, you don't sleep at night_

_as your heart is trying to mend_

_you keep it quiet, but you think you might_

_disappear before the end._

The spring that had welled up deep within her was on the verge of pouring out onto her cheek. Here she'd been smiling this entire time, trying as best as she could to not make any sort of a big deal about her insecurities—yet Charlie, it seems, had seen all of them, and was writing them all out onto a beautifully decorated chalkboard right in front of her.

_And it's strange that you cannot find_

_any strength to even try to find a voice_

_to speak your mind, when you do, _

_all you wanna do is cry. . ._

Claire just stared at him in fascination. A hitch in her throat was beginning to form.

_Maybe you should cry._

Charlie stared back at her from his guitar intently, understanding.

_And I see you, hiding your face in your hands. . ._

_Talking 'bout faraway lands._

_You think no one understands—_

_listen to my hands._

Charlie's fingers lovingly stroked the strings, and swirls of melody enveloped Claire in their softness. For the first time in forever, she felt a little safer.

_And all of this life,_

_moves around you._

_For all that you claim,_

_you're standing still—_

_You are moving too._

Charlie continued to watch her from within the melody.

_You are moving too._

She was crying.

_You are moving too._

And looking at him a little differently.

_I will move you._

Without a word, Charlie carefully set down the guitar and entwined his fingers with hers.

They sat there in silence for a long time, Charlie holding onto her hand while she cried.

"Charlie?" she said finally.

"Yeah?"

Claire reached over and hugged him, holding him tightly like at any moment this all would be snatched away. Claire still wasn't so sure if it wouldn't be gone the instant she turned her back.

Softly, Charlie gathered her up in his arms, murmuring comfort whispers in her ear.

"Shhh. . ." he said softly. "It'll be okay."

Claire looked up at him. Slowly, he raised his hands to her face and began one by one wiping the tears off of her cheek, brushing them off as tenderly as he'd brushed the strings of his guitar minutes earlier. The space between them was so miniscule, and yet so huge.

Claire closed her eyes, and an instant later, felt the touch of Charlie's lips brush her own. Claire smiled softly, and hugged him closer.

"Thanks, Charlie."


	6. I am the Master of my Fate

**The Poem _Invictus_ is copyright William Ernest Henley.**

Michael walked down the trail, crashing leaves against each other as he pushed them out of the way sloshing through the post-monsoon mud. Okay, it hadn't been a monsoon, but he was used to light, constant Northwest rain instead of a ten minute waterfall opening and closing in the sky the way it was here. He could never understand tropical rain.

It had been insane walking to the place where Locke slept to give him his Christmas gift. By the time he'd found him, Michael's shirt was soaked through and water was cascading down off of his nose in a steady stream.

He'd given him a chess set. It was crudely built: a flattened out piece of metal from the plane wing with black checkered squares sharpied in, with little circular bits of wood reminiscent of checker pieces for the kings, queens, knights, bishops, rooks, and pawns. Michael had colored half black, and left the other half natural, and had labeled each one as best as he could with his marker (which was now fast running out of ink. Damn.) Unpolished and simple, but still the only chess set he'd seen on the island anyways. And he had a feeling that Locke was a chess enthusiast.

Sure enough, when he'd given it to him, Locke had been overjoyed—as far as Michael could tell anyways. It wasn't like Locke showed much emotion about anything. He had smiled wide and thanked Michael numerous times, with his eyes still placidly intense and silencing. Michael had just begun to accept that that was the way that Locke was. It was kinda creepy at times, but it never meant anything in particular.

But that was done now, Michael thought, as he pulled back the last of the leaves from in front of him and entered the clearing. Michael looked around for signs of life. No one was around.

Sighing, he sat down and waited. He'd drawn a message for her in the dirt while she was sleeping—a message she knew her husband wouldn't interpret. No use getting throttled by some innovative bamboo weapon that Jin had created when all he wanted to do was make sure Sun got a Christmas present. It didn't matter much to Michael if Jin got anything—for all he cared Jin could go and bludgeon himself to death with that watch that he likes so much.

"Stupid pretentious bastard. . . ." he mumbled, but then immediately stopped and snapped his head up as he heard the familiar crunch of leaves.

". . . .Hello?" Sun peeked her head through the trees.

"Hey!" Michael said, jumping up to meet her. Sun walked toward him with her same straight, solemn face.

"I can't talk long, or else Jin'll get suspicious. . . . 5 minutes at most," she said. "What do you need?"

Michael stumbled over his next words, cursing himself as he did so. _What's the big deal?_ he told himself, _You're just doing a nice thing for someone. That's it._

"Oh—there's nothing. . . I mean, I'm fine. I just. . . well, you probably heard Hurley talking about it—I didn't think it was cool that you had to be left out. . . you know, because nobody knows that you speak—you know—and so I figured. . . ." Michael slowed down a minute and laughed at himself. Sun was laughing too, the laugh of finding something that was awkwardly confusing and therefore hilarious. He gave himself a couple beats to calm down before speaking again. No use turning this into some awkward teenage conversation.

He sighed with a smile.

"I wanted to make sure _you_ got a Christmas present, too."

Sun smiled in response.

"That's. . . ." she started, finding words. "That's wonderful. Thank you."

"It's not much. . ." he explained as he went to go grab it from behind the rock where he'd stashed it. "But I figured that you should have something. . ."

"What is it?" she asked when he bent down to pick it up, still smiling a little bit giddily. He hadn't seen her be anything other than serious and afraid. Not surprisingly, h

e liked the change.

"It's a poem. . ." he said, pulling a piece of paper out with a flower attached to it. Sun's eyebrows knitted in worried contemplation for a moment. Michael laughed a little as he walked towards her.

"No, no, no. . . don't worry, it's not _that_ kind of poem. It's a poem about survival, not romance or anything. It thought it seemed fitting." Sun relaxed after hearing that. Michael had known better than to do anything like that—with a husband like Jin that would have sent her life into immediate turmoil. Above all, he didn't want that for her. He just wanted her to be happy.

"Where'd you get the poem from? Somebody's book?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Nah. . . I had to memorize it when I was in junior high. I can't remember the title or author or anything, but I still remember the words like it was yesterday. I figure if the publisher has a problem with me using it without the author credited, then I'd love it if they'd come arrest me for copyright infringement, so long as they take me off of this goddamned island."

Sun laughed again, and took the poem when Michael handed it to her, reading it while her fingers played with the top fringe of the page.

_Out of the sea that covers me,_

_Black as the Pit from pole to pole_

_I thank whatever gods may be _

_for my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud—_

_under the bludgeonings of chance,_

_my head is bloody, but unbowed._

_It matters not how straight the gait,_

_how charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate—_

_I am the captain of my soul._

"That's beautiful" Sun said still looking at the page, tears welling up in her wide black eyes. She looked at him, blushing a little.

"Thank you." she said. Michael melted just looking at her.

Voices far off in the distance sent them both crashing to reality. In an instant, Sun had the paper folded up and stuck in her back pocket and was making for the trees, her eyes wide, alert and aware. She looked back at him one more time.

"I have to go—" she started.

"It's alright, I'll see you later." Michael waved.

"The poem was wonderful. Thanks again." she said, smiling genuinely at him, and then disappeared through the trees.

* * *

Michael began tromping back towards the caves once more. Halfway through the image of Boone began forming, walking purposefully towards him on the trail.

"Hey man, what are you doing here?" Michael asked as he got closer. Boone was grinning excitedly.

"You're gonna love your Christmas present." He replied, clearly proud of himself.

Michael grinned.

"So _you're_ the sucker who drew my name?"

"Don't act so surprised."

Boone bent down, searching through his backpack.

"You're still trying to bond with Walt, right?" he said.

Michael, squinted one eye and scratched his head, feeling the usual anxiety that came upon him anytime anyone mentioned the name "Walt."

"Is it that obvious?" he asked, disappointedly.

Boon raised his eyebrows at him.

"Well, kinda. Yeah."

"Great. Just great." Michael rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry so much. I'm here to help." Boone said, smiling again. "That's why I'm giving you these." he said, pulling something out of the backpack.

In his hand was a small pile of Batman comics, a few old, a few new, a few in between.

"I've been trying to hide my stash so no one would figure out that I'm a closet comic book nerd, but this is even better. Give them up for a good cause." Boone handed them over.

"Thanks man." Michael said as he took them. The waves of hope inside him were swelling high now.

"Give those babies to him for Christmas, and he'll love it."

"This is awesome." Michael said, leafing through them. "You're the best."

"No problem. I gotta head out now though—gotta show Shannon my Christmas gift. I think she'll appreciate it."

"What'd you get?"

Boone's eyes had taken on a more serious gleam, one of sincere appreciation and nostalgia.

"Locke found a picture of mine that had gone missing after the crash—one of me and Shannon and my parents when we were kids." Boone sighed with a far off look. "Those were the days."

"I know what you mean man." There comes a time in everyone's life when they crave to regain the innocence of their childhood.

"Gotta go." Boone said, looking at him with a sober smile.

"Later." Michael waved. ". . . And thanks for these. They'll help." he added, his voice filled with gratitude.

With one last look Boon carried himself and his backpack over a hill, and was gone.


	7. Bourbon Street

Sawyer sat smoking on the edge of the sea, feeling the warm salty waves froth up and crash onto his feet. He was getting soaked. He didn't care. The sea's rhythm was entirely tranquil and constant, like the breathing in and out of a sleeping child.

Blowing the last of the smoke off of his lips in twisting ribbons, he threw the butt as far as he could into the water. In his head he had been keeping count: he only had two left.

If they stayed on this island any longer (which was highly likely), Sawyer knew he was going to have to make some decisions. Quitting smoking for one—though that wasn't really a decision and more something he would be forced to do from a lack of provisions.

And eventually, he'd have to decide whether or not to keep fighting. He couldn't remember any facet of his life that he hadn't treated like an enemy and fought against—it was how he had lived for as long as he could remember: he lived as though he was at war with the world. Not only that, but he'd been pretty successful; the only time he ever flourished was in the face of adversity.

The waves moved in again and enveloped him in their warmth, this time soaking his up to his knee. The tide was coming in.

As the waves receded, leaving him wet and shivering, a memory escaped from that drawer he kept locked inside his mind. In an instant, an entire day flashed before his eyes—it was after his parents had died. The government had shipped him off to live with his chain-smoking aunt with platinum blonde hair and breast implants. In a small Jersey town, his story spread like a wildfire and pretty soon he had a million kids following him around school asking questions; some of them sympathetic, some of them filled with morbid curiosity, and most of them tenacious and judgmental. As a child Sawyer had simply kept his mouth shut, never speaking to anyone, and never answering anyone's questions.

In this place however, silence only encouraged those around him to further antagonism—he was a match waiting to be lit, and they were simply pouring on more and more gasoline. And then came the day when he finally caught fire, beating a kid to a bloody pulp at twelve years old after the kid had called his mother a whore.

His fists began falling like rain on the boy's face while a strange music hummed a deafening windy melody in his ears; the crimson exploding like fireworks in front of his eyes inhibiting his thoughts. And when he was through, he stood up and walked away, left with a strange intoxicating blend of power and the sense that maybe in living like this, he could be finally free from the millions of expectations and opinions that the world rained down upon him. That day he'd gone home, stolen his aunt's cigarette stash that she had hidden under the couch cushions, and had driven away in the old Chevy Bel-Air that she'd kept locked in the garage. She wouldn't miss it anyways. She always took the bus.

And there he had begun his fight. He hated the world—why not give the world a reason to hate him?

Laying back on the sand now, he was realizing that the fight had begun to take a toll on his mind.

Sawyer had his arms spanned out as he lay prostrate across the velvet sand, with the warm breath of the waves routinely blowing against him in submersion. His eyes remained open, even as the salt of the sea bit into them with every wave in stinging sweetness. He never closed his eyes if he could help it.

Slowly, Sawyer began to hear muffled _hush_ steps in the sand, and he looked up to see Sayid standing next to him.

"Get up."

Sawyer sat up and brushed dripping strands of salt sandy hair out of his face, and looked up at him with contempt, refusing to move.

"What are you here to accuse me of this time? Stealing Christmas?" Sawyer asked with a placidly calm grin on his face. Sayid continued to look at him stolidly.

"Get up."

"What'll it be today? A few broken ribs, some cigarette burns? Limited supplies round here, you'll have to get creative with the torture methods."

Sayid continued to look at him, refusing to move until Sawyer complied. Taking his time, Sawyer slowly stood, taking off his shirt and wringing it out. The smirk never left his face.

"Well?" Sawyer said eventually, after putting his shirt back on and smoothing himself out. Sayid looked at him peacefully a moment more before speaking.

"Hit me." he said, keeping his eyes locked intently on Sawyer's. "Just once. As hard as you like."

All Sawyer could do was continue to smile while he stared placidly, trying to figure out Sayid's angle. _Everybody has an angle_, he thought. Sayid's black eyes, full of meaningful nothingness, stared back at him. His face was made of stone. Just watching and waiting for Sawyer to respond. Sawyer turned away slightly, looking at the ground laughing under his breath.

With hardly a change he spiraled back in a kamikaze motion, punching Sayid full in the face with the momentum of his entire body. It was enough to send Sayid flying into the sand.

Sawyer's face had changed in an instant from cocky and nonchalant to jaw-clenching, seething anger; he suddenly found himself transported back to that day behind the seven eleven when he'd blown up at that kid and watched the blood pour from his nose as he punched him over and over and over until his knuckles were numb and stained with his own blood, as well as the blood of his adversary. It took Sawyer a moment to realize his hands were shaking.

This time was different, he told himself. I only punched him once.

Sayid was slowly picking himself up, rubbing his jaw a little with his calloused cinnamon hands and spitting out blood into the sand. He smiled knowingly.

"Here." he said, pulling something out of his back pocket and dropping it with a spray of sand at Sawyer's feet. "In case you wanted a more conventional Christmas present. I'm pretty sure you haven't hoarded any of these yet."

Sawyer picked up the object. It was a deck of cards, haphazardly kept together with a newspaper band. Decorated on the fronts of each card was an old forties painting of Bourbon Street.

Sayid held out his hand to shake, and Sawyer looked at him for a moment with an expression of anger mixed with confusion still prevalent on his face. Then with a slow steady rise of his hand, like a conductor about to catalyze a symphony, Sawyer took his hand and returned the gesture.

With a curt nod and that same wise smile on his face, Sayid turned without a word and walked the other way, leaving Sawyer to shuffle his cards and ponder.

* * *

An hour later Sayid was sitting in the caves swishing water in his mouth to keep from getting sores where Sawyer had punched him. He looked up at hearing a noise on the edge of the caves and there was Jack, walking towards him with that confident, downtrodden gait, like a general beaten down by too many lost battles. He sat down next to Sayid, eyeing the handkerchief next to him, which was now dotted here and there with spots of blood.

"Something happen?" Jack asked, halfway curious.

"Nothing you need to worry about. Christmas present."

"Who the hell gave you a punch in the mouth for a Christmas present?"

"It wasn't _my _Christmas present. It was Sawyer's."

Jack looked at him a moment, and then both began to laugh, the laugh that you get when you learn to stop caring so much. The laughter died down, and both sat silent, staring at a fixed point on the opposite side of the cave wall.

"Funnily enough, that's why I'm here." Jack said at last. He pulled a small book out of a bag and handed it to Sayid.

"It's a journal." Jack went on, explaining. "I figured you didn't really need anything—after all you could probably pull some MacGyver shit and make anything you really needed. . . ."

Jack took a breath, his eyes still focused on the stone wall in front of him.

"But you seem like a guy who has a story to tell. . . and since it's pretty clear that you're not the type of person who tells that stuff to other people, I figured that you should have some way to document everything." Jack's eyes softened, and he looked at Sayid.

"Merry Christmas, Sayid."

"Thank you." he said back with a smile, like those words were the revelation he'd been looking for all along. He was holding it in one hand, weighing it as though it were a precious object.

Without any provocation, Sayid began to laugh again, looking at the journal and its empty pages.

"Maybe for my birthday I can get a pen." he said in between the laughter. After a moment, Jack joined in. They went on like that for a long time.

Nothing else to do today but laugh, he thought, and appreciate the irony.

* * *

"Hey Jack!" Jack turned and looked behind him from where he sat, sharpening wood into spears. He looked up and immediately smiled to see Kate running towards him, looking unburdened for once. Maybe it was some trick of light, he thought.

Kate rushed up and sat down next to him on the rough bark of the log.

"Wanna take a moment out of being the great white hunter to get a Christmas present?" Jack laughed. His sense of humor had stubbornly returned to him after his visit with Sayid.

"Sure." He put down the knife and the sticks. "Hit me with your best shot."

The small ribbon of space his arm and hers hummed with electricity.

"You've got to close your eyes first." she said softly, a hint of a smile playing on her face.

The last thing he saw was that expression and his vision faded into black and his eyes closed.

"Now what?" he asked, scrunching his face to keep his eyelids shut.

"Hold out your hands."

Jack did as he was told. Something of weight was placed in his hands, and he felt between his thumb and forefinger the worn corner of a book cover, so old that the paper felt like warm cotton cloth in his hand.

"You can open your eyes now."

Jack looked at the book in his hand. An aged, incredibly well-read copy of _The Essential Ralph Waldo Emerson_ rested in his hand. White creases threaded their way like veins across the spine and cover. Inside there was hardly a page where some sentence wasn't underlined.

Jack looked up at her with a question in his eyes. Kate looked back at him with an almost-smile threatening its way across her face. Jack felt her fingers weave in with his own, and she gave his hand a slight squeeze.

"I told you that you needed to learn to be comfortable with yourself. I can see the demons your chasing around in that head of yours." she looked at him with a serious expression, pausing a moment, then glanced down at the book. "Read some of this—Emerson's pretty wise about being able to live through hell without losing yourself along the way."

Jack let his thumb slide slowly over the frayed edges of each page, as if he was trying to taste the content.

"It used to be mine—but I've decided now I've pretty much gotten everything I can get out of that book. It's your turn now." Kate gave him a small smile. She was still holding his hand. Jack used it to pull her into a hug, savoring a moment of his arms wrapped around her. Slowly, Kat relaxed a little, unused to human contact.

"Thanks Kate." This book had meant a lot to her, he knew.

Never can tell, he thought. Maybe this could tell him what he had been running away from. What he was running towards.

"Thanks." he repeated, then slowly let his arms melt off of her. She stood up.

"I guess you can get back to that now." she said, pointing to the stick he'd been sharpening. She looked down one last time at the book in Jack's hands. "Take good care of that. It's my bible."

Kate turned, and walked with slow steps back to the beach. Jack watched her go until she was completely out of sight before returning to work.


	8. Happy New Year for the Hypocrites

**Song _Cannonball_ is copyright Damien Rice. Enjoy.**

_There really is no such thing as time,_ Sawyer thought, as he sat motionless. He had felt himself travel through the years back through his memories many times, most recently that punch that rocketed him through space to a time when he was still young and still unable to see that with every hateful blow he dealt, his innocence was shattering as jarringly as a beer bottle being shot off a fence. He had _been there_. In that moment.

And now, here it had only been a few seconds of him sitting silent behind Kate, and it felt like he'd been there for hours. He'd been thinking. It seemed no that anytime he was around her, he started thinking things he shouldn't be thinking.

Kate wasn't aware that he was there. Everyone was huddled around one end of the fire, focused on Charlie playing on the other side; but Sawyer hung back and watched the people instead of the player, deliberating his next move. It was like playing chess. No matter what, his mind always came back to that analogy in any situation. People's minds could be manipulated and conquered like pieces on a chessboard—you make your move, and if you were good, you'll know exactly what countermeasures would be taken. In this game, Sawyer was more than "good". Sawyer was the master.

And he was also in trouble, he realized, as he watched Kate. A wisp of hair had fallen loose from her face and was now dancing freely and erratically in a silhouette against the firelight, like a ghost in the wind. Sawyer found it completely mesmerizing. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but over the past month he had begun to slowly but surely feel his life slipping out of his iron grip—he had become the audience, when he was so used to being the director.

Everything he'd been doing had been meant to be yet another power-struggle pushaway, another way to burn a bridge. He'd flirted with her, shouted at her, and deliberately tried anything and everything in his power to make her feel uneasy, but she had kept coming back. He remembered her shocked face, burning white as a star, as he'd screamed at her to read the letter, shoved it in her face and glared with hate. The shock only increased when she read it aloud, and looked up at him. He'd told the tale so often he'd actually begun to believe it himself. He _was_ Sawyer.

However, she had looked at him more with curiosity than disgust, something he hadn't expected. So he pushed further, just like he always did, until he burned his ties to ashes.

"So how about that kiss?" Sawyer asked again, spitting it in her face. And that had done it. She had walked away, and she probably would have stayed away if he hadn't gone weak. As Sayid had dug white hot tendrils of pain into his fingernails, he had felt heat and sharpness shoot through him like an electric shock, leaving him writhing and screaming until he lost his sense of pretense and he ached for someone to alleviate the pain that he had felt inside and out. The only lifeline he could think of at the time had been that look of curiosity in Kate's eyes. For that one moment of complete abandonment, he wanted to see _someone_ look at him with something other than disdain, and in that one moment of complete weakness and desperation, he'd agreed to talk, but only to Kate.

The minute that they had left and Kate walked in, he knew he had made a mistake. Sawyer could read her like a book, just like everyone else, and it suddenly came to him in a flash that if he opened himself up too far, she'd be able to do the same thing. He'd be damned if she would make him that vulnerable. So he solved the situation the only way he knew how. Make her nervous. Get her to walk away. Mention that kiss again.

_That kiss_.

He didn't think that she would actually do it. It had been just another one of his battles for power, playing chicken until she backed down, but then she was kneeling in front of him, and moving her face closer, until her breath spiraled against his, forming a hurricane between their faces. Sawyer barely had time to think before she had closed the gap and then he wasn't thinking anymore, he was sinking fast down to the bottom of the sea.

And just like that, again time hadn't existed—that moment became an infinite expanse of time the moment she had sat with her knees on the ground coming towards him.

It was only after she pulled back, with a surprised sharp intake of breath that he had regained his senses, and remembered that he needed for her to hate him like everyone else did. Otherwise, after this, his life would be hell. There was a penetrating fear there of what would happen if she didn't hate him by the end of this, a fear that he didn't examine too closely to prevent poking holes in his rationally flawed logic. The only way to be certain of yourself is to not look to closely.

And that was exactly what she was doing—looking too closely at him.

"I don't have them." he said, and felt a sting on his cheek where she slapped, barely perceptible against all the other pains that were pulsing through his broken body. As she walked away there was a relief of returning to the status quo that washed over him, and that relief almost blotted out an indefinable sense of regret. Almost.

Sawyer blinked. Again, an entire day had flashed before his eyes, and here it was in another dimension only two minutes later, with Charlie finishing his song and the group clapping.

He wished that she hadn't come back and told him everything that was wrong with his life. He wished that she hadn't decided that she could fix him, like he was just some broken down Chevy that needed new engine parts and it would be all better. His flaws weren't something that he wanted erased.

Sawyer looked down at the pieces of paper in his hands. These as well had at first just been something to shut Kate up—at least that was what he'd rationalized. He was going to play nice guy. Freak them all out. Stir things up a bit. But now looking down at them, he realized how much he had put into them.

He could throw the paper in the fire and no one would be the wiser. No one but Kate, and Kate was self sufficient enough that she wouldn't be hurt. She'd never agreed to do this thing because she wanted some present salvaged last minute from all those bags. She was a lot like him. She didn't expect human connection, she'd been living so long without it.

But if he burned the papers, then it would be just like admitting how turned around he'd become in this whole situation. Sawyer never admitted his own weakness.

No. He'd play the nice guy. Freak them out. Hand them over, Merry Christmas and I'm gone. He'd done this sort of thing to countless gullible people before. No reason why he couldn't do it again.

It was an obligation, after all. Show it off that way, he told himself, going through his split second strategy that he always recounted before talking to anyone to get the desired effect.

Sighing in frustration, Sawyer reached out and tugged Kate by the arm.

"C'mere." he said, aggravated and hurried.

Surprised, Kate swung her head back and looked at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked in an annoyed whisper.

"You told me to play nice guy and go along with this Santa bullshit. . . kinda regretting it now, aren't you, now that you're on the receiving end?"

"What are you talking about?" Kate said, trying to keep her voice down, a blank and frustrated look falling on her face.

"Just _come here_ for a sec and quit making a scene," he said, arguing back. ". . .Jesus."

Kate glared in aggravation and she tried to scoot away from her spot by the fire unnoticed. Sure, she was as usual a little separated from everyone else, a little further to the back—but that didn't mean it didn't take some doing. She crawled further and further from the fire until enough darkness surrounded her that she felt safe to stand without being seen as she followed Sawyer behind an outcropping of trees, out of eyeshot. She could still hear Charlie, distantly licking melodies off the strings of his guitar.

"Okay Sawyer. . . .what?" she said, her voice rough and antagonizing. This'll make it easier, Sawyer thought. . . I've already put her in a bad mood.

"Don't worry, Freckles, I won't keep you from your little warm fuzzies shindig," he snapped sarcastically with a smug smile, stepping closer. He shoved four or five pieces of paper into her hands. "Merry Christmas, and I hope you and every single one of those other hypocrites over there has a _wonderful_ New Year."

Kate's eyes widened in surprise and confusion, and her mouth opened a little in suspended speech. Sawyer didn't wait to hear what she was planning to say. He began walking back towards the flickers of the fire and people laughing. He felt lonelier there with everyone around him than he did by himself, but if he was alone, no doubt Kate would try to follow him and try to make his heart grow three sizes or some shit.

All he heard was Kate's dumbfounded silence for the first ten steps as he walked away.

"Wait," she said. He stopped a moment. Mistake.

"Come back a sec." she called. Sawyer turned around and looked at her, planted defiantly in the same spot. In the distance the clapping died, and Charlie started a new song, soft and sleepy like snow falling in a field. Snow. Oh, the irony to think of a white Christmas when they were stuck here in a well-heated hell.

Sawyer stared at her with a dry smirk, arms akimbo, daring her to come up with some good reason for him to do as she said. Kate looked back at him with that practical, guarded expression she always wore, the one that had rational reasons of survival attached to her every decision, with no room for emotion whatsoever. Both had their poker faces on.

"I can't see what's written one these." she said staring at him blankly. She gave him a knowing look. "I _know_ your lighter still works."

Sawyer looked at her a moment, slightly perplexed. Despite all of her seeming passivity, he thought he almost detected a scrap of need in her voice. Against his better judgment, he followed his curiosity instead of his pride, and began walking back towards her, tentatively. Charlie's voice began to filter in through the trees over his guitar.

_Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth. . . _

_Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt,_

Time threw him for a loop once more and he was standing in front of Kate holding out a light, not remembering the walk over to her.

_Still a little hard to say what's going on. . ._

Kate's eyes widened a moment as she looked over the papers. Suddenly a completely alien feeling stabbed in his gut as sharply as Sayid's knife had stabbed his arm days before, it was a strange brew of fear and pure emotional vulnerability. Sawyer shoved lighter in her hand and turned hurriedly to walk back to the safety of his anonymity at the fire. Before he could move a step he felt Kate's fingers close around his wrist, stopping him. Her hands were cold to the touch, despite the heat.

Kate's eyes were still fixed on the images, reading them as though they were a map. Before her on the page was a picture, painstakingly drawn and flawlessly portrayed. Kate looked down at herself in a black dress, dancing with someone whose face remained hidden behind her own head, amidst countless other young couples on the floor. A banner above the figures read PROM 1997. Though her figure was drawn stuffed in a crowd, her face was the only one animated, laughing, with naïve smiling eyes that spoke of the innocent immortality of youth rather than the life of worry and care that was her reality.

_Still a little bit of your ghost, your witness. . ._

_Still a little bit of your face, I haven't kissed._

Kate flipped a page. There she was laughing again, in another picture, her hair flying back as she drove down the street in a Taurus from the early eighties, the window open, her and her friends singing along to a song blaring on the radio.

She turned the page again there was her teenage self again, seen over the shoulder of a faceless father, a sarcastic I-know-everything look written on her face in mid-eyeroll as her ripped into her for a transgression. The digital clock on the table read 2:30 AM.

Another picture, her crying to another girl in the high school bathroom, holding a yearbook picture of a boy in a letterman's jacket like it was a precious object. The girl's mouth was open in a muted consolation, a hand lifted and frozen, about to touch her shoulder.

Another picture, a snapshot of her exuberantly waving in a cap and gown with ten or so other friends, all trying to give each other bunny ears, shoving to get in the shot. Her face was stretched with her mouth with open in a triangle of laughter, her eyes squeezed shut and her body bent over in an uncontrollable moment of unknown hilarity.

Every picture showed her face, but at the same time Kate had a hard time recognizing it—there were no circles under her eyes, and they contained the spark of someone who was excited for the future. She was smiling. Even when she smiled now the corners were always weighed down a little by worry and care.

After a moment, Kate looked up at him, her face still stubbornly passive. Sawyer knew anyways. If life had been a little easier on her, and she hadn't ended up quite so guarded, that look would have been different. Inside her mind, he knew, tears were dripping off her cheeks like pennies in a wishing well.

_You step a little closer each day,_

_that I can't say what's going on._

When Kate finally spoke, her words had the tiniest hitch of emotion, so small it almost seemed insignificant.

"These drawings are really good." she said, forcing things to be casual. Sawyer almost laughed. The both of them were each so equally afraid of breaking down barriers that they were freaking each other out. Both of them had had to fight through life.

"Yeah well, it's a talent you pick up when you're counterfeiting." he said, putting that grin back on his face and pretending that, like everything else, this was something he was just sliding through. What this was was a bad idea. He should have just burned the pictures.

_Stones taught me to fly, _

_love taught me to lie,_

_life taught me to die,_

_so it's not hard to fall. . ._

_when you float like a cannonball._

They stared at each other, each with blank faces and tumultuous eyes. Without warning, Kate walked toward him suddenly and hugged him around his neck hard, like she was going to fly away at any moment if she didn't hold onto something. Not a word was spoken.

_You step a little closer to me,_

_So close that I can't see what's going on. . ._

Sawyer stood stiffly for a second, unused to the contact. The only times in his life when he had been this close to someone was when he was seducing someone out of their money. Completely different from this. This was more intimate; more personal. A little shaken, he slowly wrapped his arms around her returning the hug, his palms flat against the small of her back and her head nestled in on his shoulder. Steadily, instinctively, he began to feel her rock back and forth to the music in the distance, without a conscious thought of what she was doing.

Sawyer followed suit. It felt natural, and he was only half-thinking at that point anyways. Both had been stretched too tight, had been too long running away without the knowledge that they were running towards a cliff. And for just a second or two of complete impulse, both needed something to hold onto.

They continued to rock back and forth with their eyes closed, half asleep. They were dancing.

_Stones taught me to fly,_

_Love taught me to cry. . ._

Kate had been focused forever on simple things, her survival, putting one foot in front of the other, keeping walking away. She had convinced herself that she needed nothing else, nothing but herself and the essentials. Self-reliance, that was what Emerson had always preached, and Kate had come to use his words as a life raft to float on in every storm. Still, there was a small star glowing inside her, deep in her chest, that ached with the desperation of someone about to implode for a life that could have been something resembling normal. A life of careless youth, one similar to what those drawings had depicted. That star was eating through her skin now and shining out everywhere, but Kate was too broken down at that moment to suppress it.

This must be what it feels like to let go. Just for a second, let me do this, she thought.

_So come on courage, teach me to be shy. . ._

_cause it's no hard to fall. . ._

Sawyer wasn't thinking, and for once he liked it that way. Take care of damage control later, but just let me float for a second. He sighed, and her hair rustled underneath his breath, soft waves rolling out on a sea of calm. This was just a moment, he knew. It wouldn't last. But for this one moment, he didn't feel that impulse to run, that discomfort that kept him from keeping two feet planted and growing roots. For this moment, he felt home.

_And I don't want to scare her,_

_It's not hard to fall. . ._

_And I don't want to lose. . ._

This changed nothing, she knew, but Kate still squeezed him tighter, embedding herself in his warmth. Both had their eyes closed, half asleep, half content.

_It's not hard to grow,_

_when you know that you just don't know._

Far off, they heard people clapping for Charlie as the last chords cut to silence. Kate and Sawyer continued hugging each other desperate not to let go after going so long without really _touching_ someone. Slowly, Kate slipped her hands away, and took a step back sitting down in the sand.

Without warning, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion began washing over her, a feeling she had shoved aside like so many others. And without a collective knowledge of what was happening, she lay flat down on the sand and closed her eyes.

A shiver went through her, and she suddenly realized how cold it was away from the firelight. A protective hand touched her lightly on the shoulder as she shook a moment from the cold. Sawyer. In her fatigue, she had lost awareness of him for a second, but there he was now, laying beside her. She could feel the warmth of his breath wash over her back as she drifted to sleep.

* * *

Kate woke in the morning with the electric warmth of someone's head resting against her back. It took her a moment to remember things clearly, and when they did, her eyes shot open, and she jolted, sitting immediately into an upright position. There was a feather-soft cushioned sound as Sawyer's head dropped into the sand.

Panic. What had she been thinking? She hadn't, that was the problem. She knew that Sawyer was good at seducing women—Kate couldn't believe that she had been gullible enough to fall into that situation. Now she was starting to feeling like another tally mark in the long list of women that Sawyer had seduced.

Kate shook her head and stood. She refused to be seen as conquered territory. She refused to be conquered at all.

Sawyer's head rose as he groaned, sitting up and looking at her.

"Hi." he said. His face didn't give much away. Nothing new.

"Hi." she responded, completely devoid of sincerity. Without another look in his direction she began walking away down the beach, away from him, away from the camp, and into oblivion.

"Hey!" she heard him shout, and sure enough, there he was running after her with a furrowed, angry look on his face. He began walking beside her, mimicking her hurried pace.

"What the hell is up with you?" Sawyer said with a glare.

"Nothing. You ever heard of needing some alone time?" she snapped. He grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her to a stop.

"Honey, my whole life has been alone time." he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Now what is it really that's got your undies in a bunch?"

Kate ripped her arm away and kept walking.

"Jesus—would you just leave me alone?" she shouted.

"Why?"

"Because I want you to go away, that's why!"

"Would you sit still for five seconds?" he grunted, grabbing hold of her shirt and struggling to keep her in one place.

"Would you quit thinking with your dick for five seconds?" she retorted, glaring at him.

"Christ, it's not like we slept together or anything. . ."

"Yeah well, we might as well have as far as everyone else is concerned."

"Since when did you give a shit what everyone else thinks?" he asked, his eyes angry and penetrating.

Kate closed her eyes. She hadn't meant to say that. Truth be told, she was terrified of turning into a person that cared about expectations—and that's exactly what she saw herself becoming in this situation.

"I'm not, I—" she said, waving her hands in front of her, trying to erase what she said. "The point is, while I appreciate the gift, I don't appreciate that fact that you're trying to pry my head open and get to me with it."

Sawyer looked at her a moment in a gaze of searing irony.

"Oh, I get it. . ." Sawyer prodded an accusatory finger at her chest. "You don't like it when the shoe's on the other foot, do you? How does it feel, huh Freckles? How does it feel to have someone try and rip your heart out and read all the pieces like some goddamned treasure map? Cause that's what _you've _been trying to shove in my face for the past few weeks! Doesn't feel too hot, _does it?"_

Sawyer leaned in close to her face, his eyes biting.

"But unlike you," he snarled in a whisper, "I don't need to _try_ to get to you. _That—" _he said, pointing back to the discarded pile of papers lying by the trees, "_that_, was just a Christmas gift, and idea I might add, that _you_ coerced me into." Sawyer took a step back and shook his head. That self-serving sardonic grin began to spread across his face, and then disappeared once more that moment he spoke.

"No Freckles, I don't need to _try_ to get to you. I've had you pegged for a _long_ time."

"And what do you mean by that that?" Kate said through gritted teeth in a voice of quiet bitterness.

"I mean, Freckles, that you've been spending the majority of your time running away from more than just the police." he said with that knowing, cynical smile.

Kate let out a short laugh of disbelief.

"Oh, _that's rich!_" Kate said disdainfully. "_You,_ of all people, have the _gall_ to psychoanalyze me!"

"Your point?" he asked threateningly.

"Nothing, I just can't believe that you would have the guts to point fingers at me when you're so emotionally screwed up, it's probably irreparable!"

"You're absolutely right! I can't be fixed! _Thank God you finally realized that!_" he shouted, both arms flailed out. "But there's one part where you're wrong: that doesn't give me the guts to psychoanalyze you—it gives me the _right _to." His voice lowered. "Because when it comes to shit like this, you and I are _exactly_ the same."

His face had gotten close to hers again, and Kate was having a sudden trouble coming up with words to throw back at him.

"_Fuck you!_" she screamed, letting out her frustrations and shoving him with all her might.

"That's original." he said, spitting out sand and breathing hard. He was looking at her with that defensive suspicion that he regarded everyone else with. "What else you got?" he breathed.

"I'll tell you what I got." she said, her voice faltering as a lump in her throat began to form.

No. She'd never cry. Not about something like this.

"I've got cuts and bruises sustained from a plane crash."

Kate took a moment to breathe.

"—I've got the man who's been controlling my decisions for the past fifteen years or so lying in a shallow grave. . . I have a past that weighs me down like lead in the pit of my stomach. . .I have broken dreams. . . I have secrets. . . I have suspicion. . . I have alienation. . . I have fear. . . And I have _you_, trying your damndest to get into my head, and screwing me up completely in the process."

Her eyes were burning, and her voice was hoarse from trying not to cry. She let herself collapse into the sand, hugging her knees as an anchor. Her vision started to blur, and she buried her head in her arms to compact the pain.

With the rise and fall of each breath, her whole body shook.

"So, _fuck you._" she said, and let it drop.

* * *

A half hour or so later, Kate looked up with a face of serene calm. She'd bottled everything back up again, and had reemerged out of her cocoon with that same self-assured look, if not a little bit more hollow than before.

She knew he was still sitting beside her, but she didn't look at him. She just stared out at the sea, much as she had a couple days earlier, sitting nest to him. Things had come full circle. Only this time, she had cried. A part of herself cursed her for crying, but another part of her felt oddly relieved. She just took Lennon's advice and let it be. She wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Things remained silent for a long while.

"So'd you have a good Christmas?" she heard him say, casual as always, but the words were weighted.

"Yeah. Got some good presents."

"Yeah?" There was a smile in his voice.

"Yeah. How bout you?"

"Got to punch the Iraqi in the face. That makes it a Christmas well worth it."

Kate laughed at that, a loud and long release.

Sawyer stood up, holding a hand out to help Kate do the same. She took it.

"Here's to a Happy New Year." he said, pulling her up.

"A Happy New Year for me and every single one of those other hypocrites over there?" she said, quoting his words from last night.

"Yep. Myself included."

Kate laughed again.

"Alright then." she began walking back.

"And here's to a New Year's Eve kiss." Kate turned and looked at him, his countenance questioning.

"Not unless you sweet-talk Hurley into giving you one."

Sawyer smiled, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned up against a palm tree in a perfect James Dean pose.

"Maybe I can get Sayid to tie me to a tree for something. . . bet that'd change your mind."

"That'll happen when pigs fly." Kate said, strutting away independently. Sawyer watched her go with a knowing smile. Her eyes had smirked a _Maybe_.


	9. No Resolution Needed

It is a couple days before New Years. Kate sits silently invisible against the leaves, watching the makeshift society that they have formed. As she sits she fingers the corners of five or so pieces of paper the lie delicately in her hand. She touches their surfaces as though they were precious objects. And so, as she lightly turns them over in her hand habitually, one after the other, she sits and watches with a quiet smile on her face.

Hurley and Boone are sitting against the ruins of the plane, both hunched over a pamphlet folded with yellow legal paper. Boone squints his eyes in suspense as Hurley excitedly digress every detail drawn.

"And then I used the nine iron to shoot goldballs right into the monster's eye, rendering him blind and unable to chase down it's prey. . ." Hurley turns the page, and Boone's eyes widen in fascination.

"Oh, and that's the mysterious jungle girl that I save from a monster attack. We don't know _that _much about her yet, except that she seems to be descended from an island tribe that has pretty much died off now except for her, and because of this, she has no access to modern day conveniences. It kinda explains the tiny little loincloth she's wearing."

"Yeah. . ." Boone says, dumbfounded.

Kate's eyes follow Claire and Charlie as they walk, finger intertwined, down the beach. Claire's laughing at something Charlie said, something unheard by Kate. Jokingly, Charlie bends over Claire's belly and knocks on it like it was a door waiting to be opened. Claire laughs again, and bends over to kiss him.

". . . Alright kid, listen up." Kate turns her head at the sound of Sawyer's voice. "The key to poker is being able to read other people and call their bluffs. . ."

Walt nods at him in concentration as he looks down at his cards. They are sitting in a circle of four, Walt, Michael, Sayid, and Sawyer. None of them are speaking, but instead are all reading the faces of the worn brown cards like a battle plan, every single one of them serious and strategic. Sawyer looks right at home.

". . . How do you get a flush again?" Walt asks, looking up at Sawyer quizzically. Sawyer rolls his eyes in annoyance.

He sighs. "Fine. This can be a practice round, but next time around, we're playing _for real._ Lemme see your hand, kid." Sawyer bends over Walt's cards secretively, and his eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Damn," he says, and throws his cards in the middle. ". . . I'm out."

Their voices mingle in Kate's ears with Locke's and Shannon's.

"So you played chess in France?"

"Yeah, my boyfriend was big into that stuff. The dork factor of the game began rubbing off on me a little."

"Hmmm. . ." she heard Locke mumble as he thought about the possibilities.

Jack was out cold asleep by the signal fire, his hand still sorted in the pages of a dog-eared book by Emerson. For once, no one was bothering him with problems.

Kate smiled. This really had turned into a saving grace.

In the distance, she can still hear the boys playing poker.

"I fold. . ."

"Call?"

". . . .Call."

"Call. . ."

"Hit me."

Everyone groans at Walt, still poised with his serious face.

"This ain't blackjack, kid. . ." Sawyer's voice wafts through the air.

Kate laughs to herself and then tunes them out to watch the sea breathe in and out with the tide.


	10. The Soundtrack

**Wanna Really Have Some Fun? I'm a music nerd, so: for your enjoyment, if you want a heightened reading experience for this story, I have provided you with a soundtrack. Knock yourself out.

* * *

**

Chapter 1: "Something Pretty"—Patrick Park

Chapter 2: "Moon River"—Audrey Hepburn soundclip from Breakfast at Tiffany's (Don't be fooled by cheap imitation—it isn't half as poignant if Audrey isn't singing it.)

Chapter 3: "New Slang"—The Shins

Chapter 4: "Send Me On My Way"—Rusted Root

Chapter 5: "Song For You"—Alexi Murdoch

Chapter 6: "Superman"—Lazlo Bane

Chapter 7: "Vienna"—Billy Joel

Chapter 8: "Cannonball"—Damien Rice

Chapter 9: "Such Great Heights"—Iron and Wine

**The End.**


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